Cry Cry Cry

I finally figured out why I stopped writing. I got busy, yes, but I'm a big believer in will-a-way philosophy for things you love. No, it wasn't that. Turns out it was the thing that has the entire world by its balls, if you'll excuse my French - artificial intelligence.

You see, writing used to make me feel, among other things, special. It was a skill not many could execute, not well at least. If you're told something enough, you start believing it - and I had the good fortune of being surrounded by people who were gracious enough to appreciate my words. Now? They have to wonder if it was me or a model with its temperature set just right.

And yes, there are machines who could put words to my feelings better than I can. But, that's just it. They're still my feelings. Only I know what it feels like to find love, a love that is deep and refreshing and equal. One that bounds me to itself and frees me at the same time. The one that makes me want to keep it just to myself, and yet, announce it to the world just so it can see that something like that could exist. A love that allows for my ego and anger and bitterness, and simultaneously, takes away my pain and reminds me what true companionship in the real world looks like. Maybe I can't find better words than even the most mediocre machines whirring away and contributing to global warming out there, but I can feel my feelings. I'm grateful every time I stumble onto that realisation.

So maybe I won't write as much. But every time I am overcome with grief or adoration or agony or passion, I might find my way back here.